


Bilocation

by inalasahl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spnspringfling, Episode: s07e23 Survival of the Fittest, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inalasahl/pseuds/inalasahl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries to contact Dean in purgatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bilocation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xpnkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=xpnkitty).



> Written for the Supernatural Spring Fling for the prompt "words have more power than you know."

Dean takes in the room around them. It's Bobby's house, his things, but the walls are white, trimmed in gray. Dean thinks he's seen them before.

Sam's sitting in Bobby's chair holding Dr. Sexy's boots in his hand.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Sam asks.

"The field. And then I woke up." Dean frowns. "No, that's wrong."

But Sam looks excited. "Okay. And then?"

"I woke up in the panic room," Dean replies without thinking. No, that's … that's really wrong, and he's not at all surprised when some of the books explode in a shower of paper.

Sam doesn't even flinch. "Don't get upset. I'm just trying to get you to remember, Dean. That it's possible to wake up."

The window is a round-corned curtain-less rectangle. Outside the window, there is a forest. There is something moving in the trees. "Come back," Sam says. He puts his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Did you see that?" Dean asks.

"Don't look at them. Look at me. Dean!" Dean leans in then, kisses him, slow and sweet. A test. Sam, the real Sam, would never allow this, would never. But Sam kisses him back, a little rough, a little desperate. His mouth tastes of — nothing. His mouth tastes of nothing, because Dean has never kissed his brother before. Dean pulls away and looks out the window. "You have to stay focused," Sam begs.

"This isn't real," Dean replies.

* * *

Sam opens his eyes. "You're back again," Castiel says. Sam looks over at Dean, lying on the floor. Still no change.

"I made a mistake," Sam says.

This isn't Dean dead. Sam has seen that. But this is ... a rawhead and Dean saying "it's a dangerous gig." This is Sam, looking for a miracle. At least Dean's asleep, comatose. If Sam had to look at something that looked like his brother, but sounded like his memories of being soulless, he wouldn't be able to stand it. If it goes on much longer, they'll have to move him. Get him on an IV. Hide from everyone wondering where Dick Roman had disappeared to. But Charlie, the fastest researcher Sam's ever encountered, said contact had to be from the place the soul passed through. It has to be here, but they're running out of time.

He grabs Castiel by the lapels, even though the angel doesn't move an inch. "Why couldn't you bring all of him with you?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry." It's not Castiel's fault that God brought him back again.

He lets go and tries to remember they're lucky. Cas had hung onto Dean, brought his body back with him. Unlike hell, purgatory wasn't designed as a prison for human souls. Without his body they wouldn't even have this chance, nor communication, such as it is. "It wasn't your fault. You tried."

"Thank you, Sam."

Sam knows now what angels are, that they don't have all the answers. But he asks anyway. "Why?"

"A test? A lesson? A clue? I don't know. There must be something he wants you to do someday." Castiel flutters out empty-handed and in with a sandwich. He hands it to Sam with a crooked smile. "That's what everyone says, after all," Cas says. "God has a plan."

Sam tugs the sleeves of his jacket down over his wrists against the chill. He sits down next to Dean. "Send me again," he says.

"Regular rest intervals —"

"Again, Castiel."

* * *

Bobby's salvage yard is dark and menacing.

"You give yourself over wholly to the service of God and his angels?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, exactly."

"Say it." The expression on Sam's face is wrong. Terrifyingly intent, but blank at the same time. It's not a Sam look at all. Sam's expression changes, goes soft. "Do you understand, Dean? Words have more power than you know."

Something is moving toward them. Dean watches as the cars begin to move, shoved aside by a dark shape he can't make out.

"Dean, please, we're running out of time." Sam is holding another pair of shoes.

"Those are ballet slippers," Dean says. "Cursed ballet slippers."

"They're shoes you think of as magic that you wanted to wear. I'm working with what I have." Sam bites his lip, looks over at the distant cars crashing into one another. "Put the shoes on and say something, Dean. Please."

If it means that much to him … Dean puts on the slippers and clicks his heels together. "There's no place like Sam," he says.

* * *

"Dean! You're awake."

Dean sits up, taking in the Sucrocorp lab around him. It's like waking up from a dream. Everything makes sense now, in a way it didn't before. The walls are white, trimmed in gray. The windows into the other rooms are round-cornered curtain-less rectangles. "Sam?"

"Do you remember what happened?" Dean looks at Sam, and his brother looks the same as always. But Dean is thinking of that kiss. He touches his mouth. Sam looks away.

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't know my mind would affect you like that."

"You mean, you —"

When Sam turns back, he's hesitant, but honest. "You're it for me, Dean. You know that. You said it yourself. Brick one, the foundation everything else is built on." He stands up, and his voice is a little pleading. "Just forget it, okay?"

Dean stands up, too, and puts his arm around Sam. "No. No, I don't think I will."

He pulls his brother to him, testing, and Sam comes willingly as their lips touch. Sam's mouth tastes of toothpaste and ham, because this is real. "I can get some fresh goat's milk if you'd like to celebrate," Castiel says. Dean's mind could never conjure _that._

Sam pulls away. "Crowley's got Kevin."

"We'll get him back." He squeezes Sam's hand once, because he can. Sam is a smart man, he thinks. Words do have power. "You didn't get killed," he says.

Sam smiles back, smirking just a bit. "Neither did you."

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for mature themes.


End file.
